french class finale...

 

I fail to espy Laurie’s feminine gait while waiting for the bus to take me to last French class. The sky is the color of a used teabag. Bulbous clouds purring yet somehow it refuses to rain. Instead of going straight to french class I find myself ensconced in the russet, parabolic interior of ICC.  It is like I am skirting across the anatomy of mathematical circle-eight infinity sign that has been distorted. I can’t stop thinking about Stacia. I can’t help pondering why her mom would say that she is being punished. It vexes me how we have spent weeks together on the phone and her mom had no inclination of my identity in the slightest.

I wonder what she did to warrant such punishment.

I wonder why Mrs. Blake thought I was Anthony. That she mistook my voice for being that of the portrayed hero instead of the villain.

That she thought I was Harold Hill.

 While passing the cafeteria I see Ian and Ross Perot.

“That’s was great what you did to Andrea last week,” Ian notes, before telling me that he could swear that she was brushing back tears when her mother picked her up.

Ross Perot snorts. He says yeah.

Yeah, I respond, tucking my chin into my neck.

 

I guess I really showed her.

 

                                                                               ***

Although in all his uber-human cosmic adroitness, his Nietzschean  recalcitrance, his untoward  virility he could not fathom that it was the eleventh hour. Superman continued to exert himself, asseverating his belief in justice would somehow prevail.

 In the summer of 1992 Superman was worn out, the crimson-tip of his cape whizzing through the vertical stalks of the comic chrome constituting Metropolis, an amalgam from the huffed utilitarian blocks toppling over each other into the end of some God Forsaken time. He would come home exhausted to a sexually-frustrated Lois Lane ( who was getting an additional degree in feminist studies from UM, blushing, thinking of her fiancée in the shower every time she looked at the cover of Atlas Shrugged).

In the summer of 1992 when Los Angeles is burning when MTV is rocking the vote and takes a week to garner the result of a blood test of a virus with no known cure, in the summer of 1992, Superman is battling gnawing whale sized monsters hatching from beneath the streets of Metropolis, he is putting his duke’s up and challenging Supergirl in front of a fetish-hungry money-grubbing Lex Luthor. He is breaking the sonic barrier to rescue an oriental girl he hears falling off the edge of a pagoda four thousand miles away. He is down in Antarctica stopping a levitating ice floe directed for a nuclear base in Patagonia. He forgot all about Mother’s day.

 

 

In the summer of 92 he seems to always be clashing with some second-rate B-movie villain no one has ever heard of with names like Metallo and Deathstroke,  desperate to take a jab at his unwavering glory.

Plus, being also Clark Kent, he has story deadlines to meet, he has revisions from an irascible editor.  He finds himself spending more time undressing in phone booths than he does undressing in front of his fiancé. He has to deal with Michael Keaton portraying Batman on screen and how it seems that everyone has forgotten about the red S. How even the citizens of Metropolis are more interested in spotting the whispering egg of the bat signal

 He keeps breaking dates at the last second to skirt down to Brazil to save a Favela from a mudslide before warding off Armenian terrorists in Barcelona who plan on blowing up the Gaudi spires minutes before the opening ceremony in the summer Olympic games, where everyone is seems to be paying more attention to the arrival of the dream team than they do when Superman flies overhead  ferrying the American flag during the opening ceremony.  

In the summer of 1992 Superman is tired. He is beat. He found a ribbed sex-trinket replete with batteries which purred in a studded frenzy stowed beneath Lois Lane’s mattress like a creature from another world.

  During the Fourth of July weekend while I am trying to contact Stacia to make sure she is alright after going to see Batman Returns, when I am combing over my lines to perform on-stage in music and thinking about what I should state to the class a la francais about my hopes and dreams, Superman over a three day period, battles Shell Shocked beneath the phallic shade of the Washington Monument, he scuffles with a momentarily misguided Agent Liberty after being shackled and exiled into the deep chasms of space via the nefarious Cerebrous before going to work without showering, Perry White  lambasting him for always being late. For walking around like he owns the place, reminding Superman that his Perry holds his puny pay check in the palms of his hands.

 

 In the summer of 1992 Superman will be worn out. Lois will look at her ring and touch certain parts of her body and sometimes, even though she can’t help it, think about being locked in a stairwell with Jimmy Olson as she poses for lewd pictures.  In the summer of 1992 as there are emerging a trinity of potential individuals who could become the next president of the United States.

 In the summer of 1992 Superman will have dutifully done his job for so long that people will have all but forgotten about him and how every time he lies down on his apartment couch to take a siesta his super hearing picks up a small Latvian country pleading for a hero, a savior, someone to whizz overhead in a patriotic blur and save them from the tyranny of a fictional dictator.

In The summer 1992 Superman has been saving the world for almost 55 years and needed a break. Sometimes he thought about going home and taking a bath in a melted pond of Kryptonite, enervated, burnt out ,  the angular  features of his face drilled into the bib of his cape, eyes ringed in an orbit of frigid Kryptonian tears wishing he could find die, wishing he could find someone to hold him until the end of time.

                                                                 ***

 

I arrive to the French class late. Madame is having a party for the final day of class. There is a punch bowl in the middle of the classroom. There are streamers the color of the French flag festooned though the classroom in gossamer-like reins.

Both Jenay and Andrea are seated in the far corer of the classroom. Ross Perot is blowing into a high pitched  kazoo. Ian looks at me as if to state that this is his definition of the word gay.

Madame invites me in and asks me if I am alright. She points to the center of the room where there is a punch bowl and a slabs of a powdery cake she claims is culled from  a Burgundy recipe.  On her desk is a stereo where she is playing contemporary French pop tunes that sounds like heavily diluted synthesized background muzak in an aerobic workout video.

Alors. Ca va?

Madame will hit the volume switch on the music to pause and we are to get started. Because we have just graduated from eighth grade our final carries no academic merit.  Madame reminds us that we are world ambassadors and that we  have just spent the bulk of the last six weeks traveling around the country known as France, visiting Paris, frolicking around timeless chateaus and that now it is time for us to traverse back to the  E’tats-Unis to start our freshman year of high school.

We are to give one full two minute ten sentence speech. We are to discuss our ambitions.  Our hopes and dreams for the coming year.

 

We are to press our lips out from the center of our face in meted breaths botanically coated with the sounds of the language we have blown from the pursed ocarina of our lips over the past six weeks.

 

We are to discuss our dreams.

                                                                       ***

Later that afternoon knowing that she is grounded and not allowed to talk on the phone I will call Anastasia again. I will let the phone ring six times. I will hang up. I will call again. I will get lulled by the nauseating drone echoing from the opposite end of the receiver. Her answering machine hasn't picked up. I am hopeful that Stacia is somewhere on the other end. I call again, and after six rings her mother picks up, she doesn't say hello, she stammers out a what.

I hang up immediately without saying a word. I pray that she doesn't have caller ID.

I pick up my green script. Tonight is dress rehearsal. I shall see Anastacia tonight. I will find out if she is alright.

Tonight I will find out everything I need to know.


                                                                             ***

Jenay starts stating that she enjoyed learning about cultural diversity and that she  Ian states that he enjoyed learning French because he through it was neat and that he can’t wait to use his French to hit on some hot French girls someday.

 

Everyone’s speech starts with J’ e mappelle.

 Ross Perot talks about how he is really grateful that he got the opportunity to learn a new language and all that and he is looking forward to studying French in high school, oh, and voting for the Reform candidate whose name is on his chest.  After each speech there is applause.

My thoughts are still flooded with Anastasia.  I wonder why she is on lock down.  I wonder what happen that night when she was hanging out with Washington clan.

Two girls who will attend Limestone next year talk about they are looking forward to participating in band camp later this summer and doing madrigals around Christmas time.

There are two left.  Myself and the girl I have walked out with the last third of French classes. Myself and the girl who smells like coconut sun tan lotion and chlorine and  has the straightest back I have ever seen.

The girl  I dissed in front of my purported homeboys last class period.

 

Andrea stands up. Like Madame her French is flawless and flows out of her lips in ribbons of June sunshine. Se doesn't slap her chest and introduce herself. She says something that makes Madame blush.

 I don’t know what she is saying.

“Did you hear what Andrea said?” Madame asks, stating it in English.

 
She said she is going to be a cheerleader in high school then she is going to graduate college and marry the perfect man.

 
 
                                                            ***


"He's just a bang beat, bell ringing, Big haul, great go, neck or nothin, rip roarin,
every time a bull's eye salesman. That's Professor Harold Hill, Harold Hill..."

                                                                *** 

I am the last to go. Part of me wishes I had verbally appropriated myself to the French language. Part of me wishes I could talk about how my interest in wanting to go to France and baptize myself in the French culture stems from failure, from trying to win a contest, from waking up at four-thirty every morning and trundling up and down the avenues of the West bluff, ferrying an inky diploma of exposition that will be unfurled and read.

 Although the class is at ICC I am the only graduated eighth grader who is going to a District 150 high school in the inner city.

 I wish I could describe the shades of sun hatching in the east after I have spent the whole night beatifically blathering about everything and nothing to Stacia on the phone, or how, when I am unstrapping the bundles of paper, there is a raspberry crease half-contoured around my left ear

I look at Andrea.  I wonder if she really cried after I embarrassed her last week in front of Ian and Ross Perot. 

My French is pathetic. I don’t even know how to say I am sorry.

 I wish I could milk the French language and evince that I am scared shitless about entering high school. Apprehensive about what is going to happen in the following months. I wish I could tell them all that I really don’t know how the last two months transpired. That I found myself involved in a play I didn’t audition for, mainly because the original antagonist was a biased hick from Pekin Illinois who dropped out of the production because he didn’t want to be involved in a play that had  an accomplished African American for a director. and a strong talented black man as a protagonist. I wish I could tell them that, more than anything else, all I want to do is run—that I run trois times a jour and that it’s pretty much all I want to do with my life.

That and go to France, which I do tell them. Not knowing how, only knowing that somehow I will find myself lost in the labyrinthine avenues sprawling out from the arc d' triomphe.

I want to tell them, en francais,  that, in a way, I don’t  vouloir any of this to end. I want to walk the sweltering afternoon summer heat of West Peoria tramping over the cracked yet somehow gilded sidewalks teeming with the residual of youth, that I want to call up Stacia in Washington at the payphone at the corner of Western and Sherman, that I don't want to stop talking with Laurie as I catch the bus discussing about how much I hate poetry or sitting next to Andrea and covertly sniff the scent of her baby shampoo in French class; that I want to beat my second cousin's freshman cross-country record at Manual, that I somehow want another shot to present my speech in front of the Young Columbus committee, that I don’t want to lose any of the friends I have somehow found.

And yet somehow I feel that this moment is all transitory. That it is nothing more than a pointillist dream made out of molecules of loss. 
 
And that, at the end of this speech, this summer will somehow all be gone.

                                                                                
 
                                                                               ***

Later that day I arrive to our last dress rehearsal. Outside Cori is next to Jenny. Jenny is smoking a cigarette which Pam has already stated she doesn’t mind if the older kids smoke as long as it is not in the presence of the younger actors.

 

I look at Couri and I wave. She is inexplicably beaming.

 

 
“Did you hear, Charlie?”

I say no.  Jenny stamps on her cigarette with her heal and gives me a hug.

 “About Stacia. How she is grounded. You didn’t hear.”

 

“Yeah, I tried calling her the other night. Her mother said she was grounded. Is she okay.”

 

Couri looks at me. She refers to me as child three times in a row in a way which makes me sound like I am romantically unfledged.

 

“Is she okay. Her mom said she was being grounded and that I would have to talk with her when I arrived at rehearsal.”

 

I again ask if she is okay.

 

“Oh, she's okay, but let's just say when she was out the other night our pick-a-dilly lady slowly merged into the leading role?”

 

I ask what again.

 

Couri swipes her back and forth and if she is licking and invisible envelope.

 

“Child, child, child.”

 

                                                                                       ***

I have not spoken with Andrea the entire class period.  Madame ends by wishing us all bon chance in all of our future endeavors. This is my last chance to walk out with Andrea and although my thoughts are deluged with what might possibly be wrong to warrant Stacia's grounding.


Madame goes around shaking each of our hands as we exit the classroom. Andrea is three bodies ahead of me. As with my speech I am the last to exit. I have walked out with Andrea three-fourths of the final class periods. I need to apologize to her again for how flippant I treated her in front of Ian and Ross Perot.

I need to see her again if only just to say goodbye.


                                                                          

As I am leaving the classroom Madame halts me.

“Monsieur Day-veed, a word sil-vous-plais.”

She closes the door. She asks me to sit on the front desk of the row. Madame is still wearing her long swaying denim dress. I comply to her mandates.

She begins speaking in French to me. I first I think she is admonishing me. Then I realize she is asking me a question. I recognize the Qu’est-ce que.  I recognize the word ecole. Bartering back en francais I ask her to

 

Madame sits on the edge of her desk. She is still wearing her long-swaying denim skirt she crosses her legs.

 “Did you understand what I just said?” she inquires.

I tell her yes, I mean oui. She says that the class is over so that I am free to converse with her en anglais if I like.

"You asked me what high school I am going to. I am attending Manual next year."

Madame smiles.

"You live in the south side, non?”

 

I tell her no. I live on the bluff. I went to Christ Lutheran which is in the Southside.

 

“So you are religious, non?” Madame again inquires. She re-crosses her legs. She is wearing brown leather boots which stretch up to her knees.

 
I tell her yes. I tell her that I go to church across the street form the grade school and that I was confirmed there a couple of weeks ago.

 

Madame Smiles. There is something about Madame smiles that is reminiscent Stacia’s smile in that several prismatic spectrums of light are seemingly visible every time her lips stretch into up in the direction of her eyes.

"You will have Madame Suhr then,"

"Madame, Sir?"

"Yes. She will be your French teacher at Manual.  She's a friend of mine. You will love her."

 “You like Depeche mode?” Madame Breton inquires.

I tell her yes by saying the we. I tell her that they are one of my favorite bands. She asks me how I heard of them.

"My friend David Best, his older brother Ben, He's into all these really cool bands. Depeche Mode, Cure, New Order.  European bands you never hear on the radio stations over here."

Madame smiles. She tells me that she liked my speech and that she admires my work ethic.

“I know I corrected you a lot especially with your pronunciations. I hope you thought I wasn’t intentionally singling you out. I just could really see you had a zeal for culture and a love for the French language”

I want to tell Madame about the contest. About how last year the most important thing in my life was trying to win the Young Columbus contest so that I could go over seas and experience firsthand a la francias.

Madame gives my hand a little squeeze. She tells me bon chance. She wishes me best of luck.

I squeeze the smooth interior of her palm thanking her for her time before I exit the classroom.


I have missed my chance to see Andrea one last time.



                                                                                    ***




"Why do people go to the theatre?" Pam inquires. We have worked the scene several times. We are exhausted. We open in less than 24 hours. Pam seems flustered. I can't stop thinking about how much I loathe Harold Hill and the new female protagonist. I can't stop thinking about Andrea and how perhaps I monopolized the summer chasing the wrong girl.

"Charlie," Pam looks at me. She tilts her head and smiles. She reminds the cast and company that we open tomorrow night.

"Why do people come to the theatre?"

Why.


                                                                       ***



I say goodbye to Madame and exit the classroom, swiveling into the parabolic arc, headed from the russet catacomb basement into the direction of the sun. Near the stairwell I see her. She is standing by herself, demure eyed, her French cahier tucked under her right arm.

"Andrea" I say, startled, surprise that she is waiting.

"What are you doing?"

"It seemed like we had a pretty good streak going of walking together after every class period and lets just say that I didn't want the streak to end."

I smile. I tell her that I didn't want it to end either. I hold up the door for her and we walk up the staircase, to the first floor, exiting the ashtray building in a sheet of white light.

Thankfully Ian and Ross Perot and nowhere to be found.

“I really liked your speech.” I tell Andrea. She volleys the same sentence back in my direction like lobbing a tennis return.

Andrea, as always, smells like she has just taken a bath in the sun.



I look at Andrea. I try to tell her that the reason I was so flippant with her in front of Ian and Ross Peort is because I am scared shitless. Because four years after I first developed a film of oily skin and a tuft of hair under my waist, four years after I have dreams where I wake up stiff and longing, four years after  the ivory bark of my vocal chords have inexplicably dropped a clef, four years after running every day and dreaming and supplicating to the caps of my knees and praying—four years after all this, I still have no clue what this fleeting  optical reel of life I find myself floating across like a sea with no liquid is all about.

When we reach outside it is no longer overcast. The cluster of used tea bags cloud have all dissipated.

Everything seems brand new.

 We are nearing the parking lot. It is almost time top say goodbye. I would request her number. Somehow Stacia is no longer cupped in the balcony of my Psyche.

Somehow at this moment there is only Andrea.

  She smells brand new. Coconut flavored suntan lotion and sunshine. She is wearing jean shorts and a blue tank top which avails the trumpeting bleach white of her bra strap. She is sexy. She tells me that she has cheerleading camp in a week that will last the bulk of the summer. She tells me that she is not sure is she is going to Washington or Metamora because her parents might be moving.
I refrain from telling her that the significant events of my life in the last six weeks have  evolved around  thespians from Washington, Il.

We reach the coastline of the cement  sidewalk.

I want to hold her hand but I refrain. I try to say something profound. Instead I offer her a commercial.

"Look, if you're bored you should come and see me in Music Man at Peoria Players.  Tomorrow night is the opening night. I think it's sold out but there should still be tickets available for the weekend. "

I tell her it would be good to see her again.

She nods.


Somehow she doesn’t fit the daffy cheerleader diet cokehead typology.

 

I wondered why she stayed and walked me out when Madame kept me after class.

 

“Well," I say turning towards her like a sentinel, holding my hand out. I grab  her smooth palms for a second and the next thing I know her elbows have crossed themselves behind my earlobes.  She is squeezing me towards her.

It feels like we are floating,


As quick as she reeled me in she lets go.

 

She doesn’t say goodbye. Sun is staining the cement

 

“You know, it really is a beautiful day.”

And that is how the creature known as Andrea says goodbye. As she walks into the direction of her father’s Volvo.

As she walks into the direction of the  unforgiving brass light.

Black hair leaking down from her scalp like oil flowing in reverse.

The straightest back I have ever seen.

The most beautiful girl.

Au revoir.

 Goodbye forever.

Goodbye.





                                                                                     ****

I arrive off the bus and father is waiting for me at the corner of Moss and Cedar.

“How was your last French class, son?”

 I say trey being.  I walk the half-block home down Cedar avenue to the corner of Sherman. The only house I have ever known.

 “There’s a little surprise for you on your bed.” Father says.

 “What?”

 

"It’s not much but your mother and I just want you to now that we’ve been proud of you for everything you’ve done this summer.  Learning how to take the bus, taking French, running every day, being involved in Community Theatre. We really are proud of you son."

On my bed is the plaque I received from Steamboat last year.  It was the plaque they gave me for third place in my age division only the next day in the paper they goofed and said I was fourth. It is the same tear-shaped arrowhead plaque that I mistakenly won last year  only  Dad has inked over third place, making it look like the Steamboat is nautically hobbling over hydraulics.  At the bottom he posted my times from the past two years.

Last year my time would have easily won the 14 and under division. This year I finished fourth because national cross country powerhouse YORK brought their team to compete.


I place the plaque net to the two plaques I received from being a finalist in the young Columbus contest.

“Don’t worry son, next year will be your year. Next year will be your year.

I smile.

I can’t understand if Dad is talking about beating to kids from York or about participating in the Young Columbus contest once again.

Somehow, I can’t imagine doing either.

I lasso my arms around my father and hug him as tight as I can.